


awful, wonderful you

by stilinskisparkles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Injury, M/M, Prank Wars, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisparkles/pseuds/stilinskisparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truth be told, Derek was suffering from the mild delusion he lived in all summer wherein he actually thought this year might be different, and he might, perhaps, be able to bury the hatchet with Stiles and start over.</p><p>The superglue that’s destroyed a ninety dollar pair of pants, however, says otherwise. Derek knows how this play goes down; eventually, he’s going to have to climb out of the pants and trudge back to his dorm half naked. Stiles will gloat for a damn week; Derek will have to put up with constant remarks about Stiles getting him out of his pants... Dammit, he’s actually going to get Derek out of his pants, and it’s not even close to the way he pictured it happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	awful, wonderful you

**Author's Note:**

> i got a prompt on tumblr "our grandfathers were mortal enemies during high school and they found out we go to the same school and keep trying to get us to sabotage each other and you’re super into it but like… i kind of have a huge crush on you so i’m having a hard time??” and it became a v long fic.

“—Your international relations papers are in on Friday, and I swear if _any_ of you email me with lame excuses,” Finstock pauses, runs a finger across his throat, “There _will_ be consequences. It’s the first day back, Greenberg, there’s no reason any of you can have for not having done the appropriate research over the summer. You’ve had two months to prepare for this. I mean it, essays in, or there will be no detention too long for you. Now, get out of here.”

Derek squirms as much as he can in his seat, feels his hands begin to sweat, looks up at the ceiling cursing Stiles Stilinski’s name.

“Hale!” Finstock stalks over to him, “I dismissed your class; do you find yourself to be of so much importance you can ignore direct instructions from your teachers?”

“No, sir.”

“Then _why_ are you continuing to sit here?” Finstock rests his hands on Derek’s desk, leans in to glare at him, “I know being seniors leads you all to believe you’re already god’s gift to society, but newsflash, kid, you’re _eighteen_ years old; you’ve barely started growing facial hair—”

“Actually, Coach—”

“Outside of making my life extremely,” Finstock leans closer, coffee stale breath making Derek wince, “ _Extremely_ difficult, have you ever even had a real job?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Then what is it you’re still doing, here—defying my _direct_ order—if it isn’t because you’ve gone out and made a start at being useful to society by giving back, paying taxes, _working_ , for a living and looking to confess it to me? That you’re finally letting me have some peace without you in my classes?”

Derek scowls up at him, “I can’t move, _sir_.”

Finstock pauses, gives him a once over, “ _What_.”

“I’m…” Derek grits his teeth, “My pants are stuck to the chair.”

Finstock squints, gives Derek a look like he’s going to start pulling his hair out, or maybe Derek’s hair, fifty fifty.

“Are you messing with me, Hale? After _everything_ you and Stilinski put me through last year, after the damn bird incident; the _water balloons_.”

“Coach, I swear, it’s not me, it was—”

Finstock grabs Derek’s shoulders and attempts to yank him upwards. Derek lets out a yell when his knees bash the desk, unable to go anywhere but directly into the damn thing. The chair legs jam into the desk behind him, there’s an uncomfortable scramble as Finstock struggles to take Derek and the desk/chair combination’s weight. It’s one of those moments Derek would love to have on tape to prove it actually happened. It’s mortifying. He suspects it’s exactly what Stiles was going for.

 _Bastard_.

“Dammit,” Finstock drops him unceremoniously, and Derek winces in pain.

“I don’t need you to tell me who it was, Hale. I _know_ who this was. _You_ ,” he points at Derek, “You stay here. This is _not_ happening again. My hair only just started to grow back!”

He slams out of the classroom, leaving Derek stewing angrily, and unfortunately, still stuck to his chair.

Fucking Stiles; Derek is going to wreck _so much_ revenge that Stiles and his stupid, irritating, _awful_ self won’t know what’s hit him in his stupid, irritating, awful god damn _beautiful_ face.

 _Awful_ face. _Awful_. Derek said awful, okay?

Truth be told, Derek was suffering from the _mild_ delusion he lived in all summer wherein he actually thought this year might be different, and he _might_ , perhaps, be able to bury the hatchet with Stiles and start over.

The superglue that’s destroyed a ninety dollar pair of pants, however, says otherwise. Derek knows how this play goes down; eventually, he’s going to have to climb out of the pants and trudge back to his dorm half naked. Stiles will gloat for a damn week; Derek will have to put up with constant remarks about Stiles getting him out of his pants... Dammit, he’s _actually_ going to get Derek out of his pants, and it’s not even _close_ to the way he pictured it happening.

Furious with himself—and a little with Stiles for managing to get the first prank of the semester in— Derek removes his belt and leans back in the chair. He manages to lift himself up high enough to scramble out of the pants, and then promptly tumbles backwards over the desk behind.

He’s seething as he stands, almost completely forgets he’s half naked as he stalks out into the corridor towards the gym. It’s not important considering his vengeance will be sweet. He’s going to take hold of Stiles and— kiss him hard and fast and _oh so satisfyingly_ — squash up his bones until he fits in a locker.

Whittemore wolf whistles as Derek passes him, and Derek shoves him into a notice board.

“The fuck, Hale?!” 

Derek ignores him, continuing on to burst into the gym, searching for Stiles.

Stiles is laughing at something, basketball clutched to his chest, and he looks beautiful… All at once, irritating and _perfect_ , and Derek is _so_ angry at him.

To his credit, Stiles’ eyes go huge and just a tad panicked when he spots Derek. Then, he seems to notice Derek’s state of undress.

“Oh my god,” he cackles as Derek storms towards him. “Dude, I had no idea you needed to see me so badly you forgot to put on—”

Derek launches himself at Stiles, and Stiles tosses the ball to the side at the last second, catches Derek as they slam to the floor.

 “Asshole!” Derek shouts, “You couldn’t let me have one day of peace?” He punches Stiles, hard, and it’s both satisfying and underwhelming. He wanted things to be _different_ this year.

Stiles groans, and then knees Derek in the side, rolls over him and shoves at his shoulders. “You put god damn _fish_ in my case, man! All summer my clothes smelt like shit!”

“You deserved it! You changed all my math paper answers to forty two!”

Stiles barks out a sudden laugh, and Derek seizes the moment to shove a foot in his groin.

“Ahh, Jesus!” Stiles reels away, clutching at his shorts, “Foul play, dude.”

“You deserved that, too.”

Derek thumps him in the stomach, and Stiles grunts, cuffs him around the chin in retaliation. Somewhere behind them, people are shouting, there’s a voice that definitely belongs to Scott saying violence is never the answer, and Stiles laughs again, quirks an eyebrow at Derek.

“He has a point.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Derek snaps, goes to launch himself at Stiles again when a hand grabs him by the shoulder, hauls him up.

“Enough,” Finstock growls, close enough that Derek can see the crazed look in his eye as he fucking takes Derek by the ear. “Not this year,” Finstock mutters, dragging Stiles up by his ear and shaking them both.

“Coach, come on,” Stiles begins to whine, “We were just—”

“Don’t you dare,” Finstock interrupts, begins leading them both out of the hall.

“It was Stiles’ fault,” Derek huffs. “He started it.”

“That’s so not true,” Stiles argues hotly, “You’ve been picking on me since the day I got here!”

“You purposely tripped—”

“Both of you, shut up,” Finstock grinds out. “Never, in all my years of teaching have I had to deal with miscreants as bad as you two.”

Finstock continues to pull them along, doesn’t take them to his office, but instead up to the dorm rooms.

“I know you’re both special snowflakes,” Finstock lifts an eyebrow at Stiles, “What with your genius brain,” he glances at Derek, “And, your family’s money, but that’s not going to help you this time. I’m sick of the two of you and your special treatment, and getting away with this ridiculous feud.”

Derek scowls, feels mortified his exception is because of his family’s wealth, not his own intellect.

“He’s pretty much a genius, too, coach,” Stiles pipes up, “Only the best keep up with me.”

“Not another word, Stilinski,” Finstock pushes open Derek’s room, lets go of his ear.

Derek rubs at it, still stinging both over the fight and Finstock’s words, turns to face him.

“What are we doing here?”

“Pack,” Finstock says curtly, juts his chin at Derek’s already overflowing desk.

“You want me to— all of it?”

“Oh yes,” Finstock grins, just a little manically, “We can wait.”

“Can I put pants on, first?”

Stiles goes to say something, and Finstock quite clearly squeezes his ear tightly, Stiles’ mouth snaps shut.

“You have thirty seconds, Hale, dress and get your stuff together.”

“But, I have a whole closet full of clothes.”

“Stilinski will help.”

“He’s not going near my stuff, coach.”

“What part of this,” Finstock gestures between them, “Makes you think you have a say? Stilinski, get his case, pack him up, both of you, now!”

In mutinous silence, Stiles and Derek pack. Derek refrains from complaining that Stiles doesn’t fold any of his clothes correctly; tries not to grin when Stiles makes a noise of alarm at the notepad with a scratched title _Destroying Stilinski_ on it; and avoids eye contact completely when his sketches are added to the top of the case. He hopes the ones of Stiles are hidden deeply enough in the pile that Stiles won’t spot them.

When they turn, ready and packed, four minutes later, Finstock nods, still glowering at them both.

“Good, let’s go,” he snaps.

“Where?”

“Oh,” he beams, “You’ll see.”

They traipse up the corridor after him, and Finstock stops in front of Stiles’ room, gestures for them both to go inside.

“Coach,” Stiles begins, but Finstock holds up a finger, points sharply inside.

“You’re going to have new roommates this year, boys.”

“Yeah, I think we got that,” Derek mutters, dropping his bag to the floor.

“What about Scott?” Stiles whines.

“He’s going to share with Derek’s old roommate, _obviously_ ,” Finstock replies drily. “You two drove me to the limit, last year, and it’s not happening again. You’re not bringing any of your peers down, either. I won’t have Boyd and McCall distracted from their studies because you two can’t get along.”

“So, you thought the best solution was to have us room together?”

“Oh yes, that way, nobody else gets caught in your cross fire,” Finstock shrugs, gives them both another crazed grin. “I can’t seem to give you enough detentions to stop, and you’re both too smart to actually ever get caught in the act, so, I’m removing everyone else from the situation. All I can do is hope you don’t kill each other,” he pauses at the door, looks them up and down, “And, I’m not going to pray too hard on that, either.”

He slams the door behind himself, and they both flinch.

“Well,” Stiles licks at his busted lip, winces, “At least he called you smart, that time.”

“Go to hell,” Derek retorts sourly.

*

Stiles watches _They Live_ , loudly, on his laptop until two am. Derek tries sleeping with his pillow over his head, and then gives up, thumps at Stiles’ mattress springs angrily.

“Do you have to watch that, now?”

“Have you even _seen_ this movie?” Stiles leans over the side of the bed to grin at him, “It’s the bomb; it teaches you to look beyond what commercialism, the media, the fucken’ _world_ is telling you, man.”

“It’s two am,” Derek rubs his eyes, “I don’t care what the world is supposed to be telling me.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Stiles snorts, rolls back onto his bed.

“And, just what the hell does that mean?”

“It means your daddy’d just pay for you to feel better about shit, anyway.”

Derek blanches; irritated as ever when people imply he’s just a spoilt rich kid, but for some reason even more so when Stiles does it. “Like _your_ dad wouldn’t just write you a special get out of jail free card at the drop of a hat.”

“Hey, you don’t know shit about my dad.”

“And, you don’t know shit about _my_ dad, so just drop the snide remarks.”

“Wow, _snide_ , fancy vocab for two am.”

Derek kicks at the springs, “I. Hate. You,” he punctuates each word with kicks. “So. Damn. Much.”

“Right back at you,” Stiles retorts, sweeping his pillow down blindly and hitting Derek on the side of the head.

“Fuck, Stiles, stop it!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Stiles continues to hit him, “Take it like a true upstanding Hale should, Derek.”

“That is _it_ ,” Derek snaps, half falling out of bed and yanking his half unpacked bag open.

“Ohhh, oh, are you gonna call daddy? Tell him I was being mean to you?”

Derek finds what he was looking for and stands. They’re at eye level from where Stiles is still lying down, and for a brief moment they both go still, just staring at one another. Derek snaps himself out of it, and handcuffs Stiles’ wrist to the side of the bed.

“The hell?! Dude!”

“Now shut up, and go to sleep,” Derek says in a smugly gentle voice, picking up Stiles’ laptop and tossing it on the desk.

“Careful, man! We can’t all afford to buy a new one every time—”

Derek grabs Stiles’ abandoned pillow and hovers it over his face, “Don’t say it.”

Stiles blinks up at him, “You’d really smother me to death?”

“To death? Maybe not. But, to unconsciousness? Don’t push me.”

“You can’t leave me handcuffed, dude, I have classes in the morning.”

“Yeah, and so do I,” Derek shoves the pillow under Stiles’ head, fluffs it once— ignoring Stiles’ incredulous expression— and then settles back into bed. “Sweet dreams, Stilinski.”

*

In the morning, it _is_ tempting to leave Stiles, snoring and handcuffed to the bed. Derek dries off from his shower, pondering Stiles’ sleeping form, and decides he’s really not that terrible a person at heart.

He leaves the key in plain sight on the desk, and makes his way to class, for what he _hopes_ will be a blissfully quiet second day back.

Boyd greets him in the corridor, gives him a rare grin, “Stilinski didn’t murder you in your sleep?”

“Couldn’t,” Derek smirks back as he opens his locker, “I handcuffed him to the bed.”

“Too early in the morning for that information,” Boyd grimaces.

“Not like that, _gross_ ,” Derek grabs his books, there’s a sudden bang, and blue goo goes all over his face.

Derek freezes in horror, unable to comprehend what’s happened for a moment.

“Did he… Did that really happen?”

“Oh yes,” Boyd starts laughing as he hands Derek a tissue, “Oh my god, if Erica were here she’d _definitely_ be coming up with jokes about Stiles making sure you got a happy ending, anyway.”

“Don’t,” Derek groans, wiping his eyes, “Jesus, when did he have time to do this?!”

“That kid is the devil,” Boyd says consolingly. “At least he can’t get to you in history.”

“He can get to me everywhere,” Derek mutters, following Boyd into the classroom, “Seriously; my locker, my room, my pants.”

Boyd holds up a hand, “I don’t need to hear about that.”

“He superglued my pants— without me realizing— before class, yesterday. I had to destroy them to get out.”

“Yeah, I heard about the fight,” Boyd sits back in his chair, gives him a sympathetic look, “You’re really rooming with him, too?”

“Yep,” Derek flips open his textbook, pulls a face when he sees the pages are all blue and holds the book up for his friend to view. “How does he think this is fair?”

“You two don’t really play _fair_ ,” Boyd shifts his chair until he’s right next to Derek, moves his textbook between them. “Hey, are you still allowed to visit other people? Because, I don’t know if I can watch a movie without you next to me bitching about its inaccuracies, now.”

Derek huffs a laugh, flips him off, “Who says I even want to watch movies with you, asshole? I can never hear the dialogue over your breathing.”

“And, I can never hear anything they’re saying because of your bitching, so,” Boyd grins at him again, “Guess we’re even.”

They spend the class bickering good naturedly, and Derek forgets all about his feud with Stiles.

He’s so grateful to be friends with Boyd, to have someone that doesn’t care about how much money his family has, or that the Hale’s have a _library_ named after them on campus. Boyd works just as hard as Derek, cares about his grades, and they’re both on the basketball team together. They’ve been friends since fourth grade, moved up through the school together, and they’ll both being going to NYU in the fall. Derek can’t wait to get away from the place that’s had so much control over his life for so long.

The fact Stiles is going to NYU, too, is something Derek is trying to ignore; it’s a huge campus, and there’s no reason why he’d ever need to see Stiles again… unless he wanted to. Which… he doesn’t. The kid set up a paint bomb in his damn locker; he _definitely_ doesn’t want to see him again.

*

“How was your day, dear?”

Derek jumps as he lets himself into his new dorm room, spins to glare at Stiles.

“Why are you still here? We have practice in five.”

Stiles wiggles his still chained hand in the air, gives Derek the finger as he does so.

“I’m not Doctor Reed, you know; don’t have incredibly stretchy skin… Although, that would be _so_ fun.”

“I thought you’d have the initiative to get a key a mere four feet away.” Derek glances over to the desk, frowns when he sees the key is gone. “Where did it go?”

“Well, you see, Derek, I _did_ try, quite a bit, for like, two hours, actually, to get the key,” Stiles gestures to where his sheet is tied into a line of loose knots, and draped over the side of the bed. “Knocked the key under the desk, which was… not a proud moment for me, and if I still had my mom’s cuss jar, let me tell you, I’d have filled it.”

“You have a cuss jar?”

“ _Had_ ,” Stiles twists away, looks up at the ceiling, “I don’t anymore.”

Derek feels a twinge of guilt as he looks down at Stiles; he’d never imagined Stiles would fail at breaking free; he’s so good at screwing up _Derek’s_ day, it seemed like an easy feat for him to get out of handcuffs.

“So, you missed class?”

“Yep.”

“And, Finstock didn’t come looking for you?”

“Oh, no, he checked in, saw the handcuffs and yelled at me for all the kinky sex I’d obviously been having with you before you bailed.”

Derek feels his face flush, “ _What_.”

Stiles grins, “Got ya; man, lying here all day was so worth it just to see the look on your face, priceless.”

“Asshole,” Derek snaps, ducks to reach under the desk and retrieve the key.

“Hey, you have uh, something blue in your hair,” Stiles tells him in an innocent sounding voice.

Derek spins around, takes in his smug expression, “Yeah, and I still have the key you need to use to go shower before this afternoon’s practice.”

“My priority would be to take a piss,” Stiles squirms, “Seeing as I’d just be getting all sweaty again.”

“You need to shower, trust me.”

“Funny how, in all our years of knowing each other, I’ve never managed that, so,” Stiles beckons with his hand, “The key, Derek?”

“Right,” Derek tosses it to him, watches him unlock the handcuffs and stagger out of bed.

He looks strangely vulnerable in his sleepwear; Derek’s almost sure he’s never seen Stiles’ _bare feet_ before. He knows he must have done— they’ve known each other five years— but, he’s never really looked at Stiles’ _feet_ before.

The key hits him on the side of the head as Stiles disappears into the bathroom, snaps him out of his _foot_ induced haze. Derek scowls after him, picks it up and grabs the handcuffs; he needs to hide them somewhere Stiles will never be able to find them, and use them against Derek.

“Hey, so, I’m sorry,” he says gruffly to the half open door.

There’s a beat, and then Stiles peeks through the door, quirks an eyebrow at him, “For real? _You’re_ apologizing.”

“Well, I’m not _now_ ,” Derek scowls, “I just did.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles leans against the door frame, folds his arms, “What for? _Exactly_.”

“For making you miss class,” Derek shirks off his jacket, turns away, “Nothing else.”

“You’re not sorry for _anything_ else?”

“Nope,” Derek flashes a grin at him over his shoulder, “You started it.”

“You’re such a _dick_ ,” Stiles returns, comes over to grab his basketball gear.

“Yeah, well, so are you,” Derek elbows him, and Stiles clangs into the beds.

“Ass,” Stiles rubs at his arm, “Why did you even come back up here?”

“To check you hadn’t died,” Derek opens their room door, waits expectantly for Stiles to follow him out. “I didn’t want a body on my conscience.”

“I’m touched,” Stiles preens, leans into him, and Derek rolls his eyes, lets Stiles into his space without complaint.

“Jesus, you two get a room,” Jackson snarks as he saunters past them both, gym bag in hand.

“Hey, we have one, asshole!” Stiles turns to Derek, quirks an eyebrow, “You sure you don’t wanna team up and take _him_ down? You know, for fun? A last hurrah?”

Derek snorts, “I’ve got my hands full with you, thanks.”

“Glad to take up your hands full attention,” Stiles says with a smirk, bowing as Derek passes him.

Finstock comments on their brief, newly formed comradery during practice, oozing smugness, and Derek has to throw a basketball at Stiles’ head just to ensure they don’t look too friendly. Stiles retaliates by stepping on Derek’s lace, and making him trip. They end up scuffling and being benched, elbowing one another and arguing until Finstock dismisses them altogether.

*

Derek wakes gently, feeling relaxed and surprisingly well rested considering Stiles spent half the night bitching about Derek. He rubs his face sleepily, freezes when his fingers catch on something rubbery along his eyebrows.

“Stiles, what the fuck did you do?” Derek jolts up, hurries over to the mirror and gapes at the Band-Aids over his eyebrows.

“Oh, hey Sleeping Beauty,” Stiles saunters out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel— Derek forgets his fury for a moment, and flits his gaze over Stiles’ nicely defined chest— before Stiles notices, smirks harder. “You need something?”

“What have you done to my face?!” Derek spins back to the mirror, attempts to peel back one of the Band-Aids, and yelps when all the hairs along his eyebrow stick to it.

“Who says it was me?” Stiles’ expression in the mirror behind Derek is the paragon of innocence. “Maybe it was Jackson?”

“What would Jackson gain from doing this to me? Outside of getting the shit beaten out of him.”

“You know, a year ago I would have thought you’d say violence was never the answer, but you’re such a hot head these days…”

Derek spins around, shoves Stiles back up against the bunk bed, “I’m not a violent person.”

Stiles wets his lips, and Derek refuses to be distracted by the movement.

“I’d argue your current position is proving otherwise,” Stiles catches Derek’s wrists, pushes him away, hard.

“What can I say,” Derek snaps, “You bring it out in me.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. Jesus, Stiles,” Derek tugs at one of the Band-Aids again, “Fuck, that hurts! _Why_ did you do this?”

“You handcuffed me to the _bed_ , Derek! And, believe me, that is not a sentence I ever thought I’d be against uttering.”

“You wish,” Derek says hotly, ignores how his face is burning at just the idea of Stiles handcuffed willingly, and _at his mercy_.

“Didn’t say it’d be you, big guy.”

Derek scowls, “Like anyone would want to keep you in one place and listen to you run your mouth for hours.”

Stiles kinks an eyebrow at Derek over his shoulder, tugs up his jeans and reaches for a sweater.

“You’d be surprised; I get a hella lot of interest in this,” he waves at his mouth, sticks his tongue out at Derek.

“By insane people?”

“Ha, _no_ , normal, hot people.”

Derek stamps down on the strange feeling of jealousy bubbling up inside his chest, manages to roll his eyes, “Sure.”

“You wouldn’t know,” Stiles continues loftily, “It’s not like you’ve ever come out socializing with everyone else, like a _normal_ person.”

Derek scowls, pretends not to be hurt by Stiles’ ribbing, “I came to school to _learn_ , not to figure out ways to escape.”

Stiles pauses at the door— suddenly fully dressed and ready for the day without Derek having even gotten out of his pjs— and gives Derek a thoughtful look, taps the door frame, “Then, why d’you even bother with me?”

Derek rolls his eyes again, turns to grab his own towel, “I told you; you bring it out in me.”

Stiles huffs a laugh, “Not gonna lie, I feel sorta proud of that.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Derek snaps, angry all over again when he tugs at his shirt and it catches on the Band-Aids. “God, why do _you_ do this to _me_?!”

“Cos it’s fun to watch you squirm,” Stiles tosses him an easy salute as he disappears, and Derek throws his shirt at the closing door.

“Dammit, Stiles!”

He can’t figure out a way to remove the Band-Aids without literally ripping the hair from his face, and so has to go to class wearing them. Finstock spends all of econ shooting him dirty looks; like it’s Derek’s fault Stiles is an evil genius.

“At least you’re protected from certain facial injuries for the game, tomorrow,” Boyd points out, setting his lunch tray down next to Derek’s.

Derek gives him a wan smile, takes a vicious bite into his pasta.

“Erica mentioned going out into town after, you in?”

“M’not—” Derek pauses from eating as Stiles comes into the dinner hall, watches him as he crosses over to Scott’s table, winking at Derek as he passes.

“Lookin’ good, Hale.”

“Bite me, asshole.”

“Oh, I could,” Stiles bares his teeth. Derek flicks a fry at him, and Stiles catches it out of the air, chomps down on it. “My compliments to the man that knows just the right amount of salt.”

“Go away.”

“As you wish,” Stiles sweeps a deep bow, continues on to where Scott and Isaac are sitting.

Boyd pretends to bash his face in his potatoes.

“Shut up,” Derek snaps, gestures at his eyebrows, “Do you see what I’m dealing with?”

“I think _both_ of you are pretending not to see what is obviously going on here,” Boyd begins eating again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek mumbles, hoping his cheeks aren’t going too red.

“Sure you do; you’re not an idiot.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But, that wasn’t my point, town, tomorrow night?”

Derek glances over to where Stiles is laughing, not paying him any attention, and sighs; thinks about how much it had stung when Stiles had been teasing him about being an anti-social loser.

“Okay, yeah, sure I’m in.”

*

The day of the game, they head over to the gym after lunch, and Boyd roots in his bag, elbows Derek.

“Here,” Boyd tosses a tub of Vaseline at him, “Erica says to try that; something about a friend that picks her eyebrows in her sleep.”

Derek grimaces, “I don’t need the details.”

“Oh, you think I wanted to hear about them?” Boyd shudders, “She sent me a damn picture.”

“That sucks,” Derek turns to the nearest mirror, smears Vaseline around the Band-Aids. “She’s sure this’ll work?”

“She says you’re not coming out with us otherwise,” Boyd warns, blows on his hands and comes to stand in front of Derek. “You ready?”

“No.”

Boyd peels off the first Band-Aid; and to Derek’s surprise—and relief— it comes away easily.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, “They were starting to itch.”

“You know, you could just ask him out; pretty sure he’d say yes.”

“It’s not like that,” Derek flicks one of the Band-Aids at Boyd, and his friend grimaces, steps away with a grin still in place.

“You can lie to yourself, man, but not to me.”

“I lie to you all the time.”

“Uh huh,” Boyd grabs his bag, still grinning, and Derek pretends to lunge at him.

“Dick.”

“Save your smooth moves for Stilinski,” Boyd teases, darting out of the locker room as Derek gives chase.

“I hate you.”

Boyd lets him catch up, throws an arm around his shoulders, “So you say, man, but I’m the one getting you free alcohol later, so….”

“Erica’s getting us alcohol, you…” Derek quirks an eyebrow, “I’m not sure what you bring to the table.”

“My charm and wit,” Boyd winks at him, turns towards his room, “See you out there.”

Considering their animosity, Stiles and Derek work well on their together. The basketball team’s been playing as a unit for over three years, and they all know one another’s strengths and weaknesses. The deeply threatening warnings Finstock gave in his speech about working together (and daring to defy him by _losing_ ), weren’t necessary. Derek’s always been able to put the game first, focus on his team and the play, rather than trying to one up Stiles on the court. He loves basketball, loves how simple it can seem, so fluid and smooth when a team plays well together. Through hard work, and _far_ too much time living in one another’s pockets, to watch Derek’s team play is a beautiful thing. They win, easily, and not even the ghost feeling of Band-Aids still taped to his eyebrows can stop Derek from joining in the team hug, allowing himself to throw an arm over Stiles’ shoulders.

He tells himself it’s gross and sweaty, not appealing at all, and in no way makes him think of other ways Stiles could be hot and slick and touching Derek.

*

“So,” Erica smirks over at Derek, and he braces himself for the barrage of questions about Stiles. They’ve covered their summers, they’ve danced (just a little, Derek made a beeline for an empty table as soon as one opened up), and he knows she wants to ask about Stiles. He _knows_ his friends think the feud is stupid. Erica’s been insistent he and Stiles are half in love with each other for over a year. The first time she met Stiles was right after the water balloon incident, and he’d been crowing about it at the table, sending Derek pleased as punch looks while Erica smirked between them. Their schools often share social events, and at the last one, Stiles and Derek had both been banned from joining in by Finstock, forced to sit on the sidelines together. Stiles hadn’t seemed bothered, had spent all evening jostling Derek, trying to draw on him with a marker pen he’d found somewhere, and Derek had let him. The first time he enjoys a dance and it’s because of Stiles trying to drive him crazy.

Erica took a picture of them and text it to him the next day with the caption “Young Love.” He still has the picture, but he deleted the text; he’s sure Stiles goes through his phone. No matter how many times he changes the lock code Stiles always seems to get in.

“How’s school?”

“Fine, just look at my amazing, witty company,” he juts his chin over to where the rest of the basketball team are trying to convince some of Erica’s school friends to dance. He’s almost certain he can smell Jackson’s cologne from where they’re sitting; Scott’s already stepped on a pretty brunette’s feet twice and Stiles— Stiles is following a beautiful redhead onto the dancefloor, their hands entwined.

He feels his stomach twist, and the joke is suddenly a lot less funny.

“Mmmm,” Erica follows his gaze, pats his hand, “Seems like they’re doing better than you, hiding out in the corner, honey.”

Derek tears his gaze from watching Stiles beginning to dance. He’d never known Stiles’ hips could look so scintillating, his body so languid and easy as he sways with the girl.

“I’m fine,” he manages shortly, takes a sip of what is frankly, terrible beer, but it’s free (on Erica’s immaculate fake ID) and he suspects he’s going to need the numbness alcohol will bring.

“How’s art?” he asks, rubbing his eyebrow distractedly and trying to change the subject. Years ago, he and Erica had bonded over a shared love of art, painting, drawing, charcoal, they were both good at it, even if it wasn’t what their parents had in mind for them career wise.

Derek’s father wants him to become a lawyer, just like him, just like his grandfather before him.

“Brilliant,” Erica beams, “This semester we’re focusing on sculpting, and I’m basing my piece on Louise Bourgeois.”

Derek scrunches up his face, trying to think of what he can vaguely recall about twentieth century sculptors.

“I don’t remember her sculptures, much, but isn’t she the one that did all those weird, headless paintings of women.”

“Yep,” Erica’s grin widens, “To show how women are encouraged slash forced to stay in the home, to be removed from the outside world.”

“’S’all about feminism,” Boyd chips in, points his beer at Derek as Erica smiles at him proudly. “You gotta get on that.”

“I am on that,” Derek insists, “All I know is strong women, and we should all be encouraging them to thrive and to…” he trails off as the redhead goes up on her tiptoes to say something in Stiles’ ear.

He’s leaning in to listen to her, one hand on the small of her back, the other clutching his beer, and he must have a damn sixth sense for when Derek’s looking at him because he glances over, fucking winks at Derek.

“You were saying,” Erica prompts, “We should encourage all women to get on that?”

Derek snaps his eyes from Stiles, scowls at her, “Yes, if they want to, they absolutely should.”

“Even with people we have massive crushes on?” she adds sweetly.

“Even if,” Derek insists, downs the last of his beer and stands. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“I bet ten bucks Stilinski follows him,” Boyd mutters.

“Poor baby,” Erica teases, “Is the sexual tension so bad in there?”

“You could cut it with a knife, babe,” Boyd begins to shake his head. “I can’t wait until we’re living together and I’m far away from Hale and Stilinski’s drama.”

“You’d miss me way too much to live _that_ far away,” Derek says dismissively, ruffles at Boyd’s neatly shaven head as he passes.

He moves through the dancing throngs, pretends he hasn’t noticed that Stiles’ eyes are following him as he darts into the bathroom.

Danny gives him a nod on his way out, clearly not listening to Jackson ranting about something and Derek slips into a stall, shuts the door quickly.

“You’re being a moron,” he tells himself quietly, leans his forehead against the cool of the door. “Don’t be an idiot. Stop being an—”

“Talking to yourself in there, Hale?” A familiar hand bashes on the top of the door, “You need the men in the white coats, yet?”

Derek whips open the door, scowls across at Stiles, “Can’t you give me five minutes peace?”

Stiles blinks at him in surprise, “I just came to see if you were okay, you sorta flew outta there like you know…” he waves a hand in the air, trailing off.

Derek scowls, “Like what? Like my ass was on fire? Like I just realized I had a lame paper to finish? Something else insulting?”

“Like you were going to have a panic attack,” Stiles cuts in, glowers back at him, “Excuse me for caring.”

“Do you?” Derek lifts his eyebrows, “You saying you came in here to check on me?”

“Duh,” Stiles huffs, “I know I might tease you—”

Derek snorts and Stiles rolls his eyes, “Fine, I know I _do_ tease you, a lot, but that doesn’t mean I don’t, you know, care, like… if you were in here stressing out about being _sociable_ and we were all out there havin’ a good time… I’d feel bad.”

“Gee,” Derek manages, but he’s bizarrely touched, and he jerks his head in thanks. “I’m fine, but, I’m leaving.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow of his own, “What, already?”

Derek glances at his watch, “It’s one in the morning.”

“You’re such an old man, already,” Stiles pops his bottle on the counter, opens the door for Derek.

“What?”

“C’mon, I’ll go home with you.”

“You—”

“Otherwise I’ll only wake you up later and have you yell at me; I’m saving us both valuable time and sleep,” he crooks a smile at Derek, and it’s ridiculously endearing.

“I’m…” Derek eyes him suspiciously, “Don’t you have someone you were dancing with?”

“Oh? Lydia?” Stiles waves a dismissive hand in the air again, “That was just to make you—that was just to wind Jackson up. She’s into him, though, I have no idea why,” Stiles pretends to shudder. “Despite what he says, he really isn’t my type.”

“He’s _everyone’s_ type,” Derek echoes Jackson’s smug words from a previous basketball practice.

Stiles shoots him a sly smile, “Not mine.”

“And, what is—” Derek stops himself, straightens his own jacket, doesn’t want to know exactly what Stiles’ type is in case he doesn’t match it. “Okay, shall we go?”

 “Yep!” Stiles says brightly, “We can watch _They Live_!”

“No.”

“ _Predator_?”

“The whole point of going home now is to _go to bed_.”

“It’s the weekend, Derek,” Stiles elbows him, and for once it’s in jest, teasing, gentle. “Live a little,” he adds as Derek passes, their faces close enough that Derek can feel his breath against his cheek. Derek savors the moment, lets his eyes fall shut for just a moment as Stiles leans in, brushes their fingers together

“Fine,” he opens his eyes, blinks slowly at Stiles, “Half a movie.”

“Wow,” Stiles draws his hand away, claps Derek on the shoulder, “You are one _crazy_ kid.”

“Bite me.”

“I would not be as averse to that as I would be to biting Jackson.”

Derek hits him on the shoulder, feels stupidly warm as they leave together, and Stiles doesn’t give Lydia, or anyone else a backwards glance.

For once, when they’re home together in the room, they don’t argue about who gets the lights; and Derek finds it oddly endearing that Stiles mouths along to all of the lines, rather than irritating.

He must fall asleep before Stiles, however, as when he wakes in the morning Stiles is back up top, not sitting next to him as he was when they were watching, and Derek’s laptop is stowed safely beside him on the bedside table.

Stiles had changed his password—seemingly needing to do something to annoy Derek in the morning—but, it’s an easy one for Derek to crack: _derekisaloser_.

“Original,” he snorts, standing to hit the still sleeping Stiles with a pillow. Stiles groans and rolls over, flips him off with a sleepy grin.

“You figured it out quick, is that cos you know you _are_ a loser?”

“Takes one to know one,” Derek retorts easily, heading for the bathroom.

“That come back was beneath you, man!”

Derek shuts the door before he can suggest anything stupid, like having Stiles beneath him.

*

The pool is full of loud, boisterous students, and Derek lets it wash over him as he swims. Beside him, Boyd is grinning (a sight to see), and he’s easily beating Derek at their daily race of thirty laps. He wins almost every day. The only time Derek won was when Boyd had a sprained ankle, and only managed three laps before calling for a break. Derek won by default; he is, however, the better sprinter of the two of them, so they’re even.

On the other side of the pool, Stiles and Scott are taking it in turns to cannonball into the deeper water, coming up shouting and cheering for the bigger splashes they make.

Derek tries not look their way too often, but he can’t help glancing over every so often. Stiles is half naked, and soaking wet, his face alight with joy at the chaos he and his best friend are causing. It makes Derek _yearn_ , makes him wish, sometimes, perhaps, that he and Stiles were the mischief makers together. _Not_ , that he has aspirations to break the law, or even get into trouble at school—it’s never been his forte, Cora is the one who revels in playing pranks and drumming up drama at school— and Derek was, as his sisters often teased him, the golden child growing up. Derek did his homework on time (and enjoyed it), never crossed his parents (even with Laura’s frequent attempts to drag him into arguments, especially as they got older), and he’d never talked back to a teacher in his life. That was all _before_ Stiles, though.

Stiles joined Beacon Hills Academy when they were fourteen. Derek had noticed him, quick to spot anything different about his classes; and had surprised even himself giving Stiles a rare, welcoming smile. He’d shared his Bio text with Stiles, sat with him at lunch, and learnt that Stiles was transferring (greatly against his will) due to the fact public school wasn’t doing anything for his brain, or the fact his father was a sheriff. Stiles was funny, talkative in a way Derek was used to with effusive sisters, and so never complained, only nodded along whenever Stiles began veering off topic, always able to keep up with him. For some reason, Stiles seemed to enjoy Derek’s company, too.

That had all changed over Christmas break. Derek had been telling a story involving Stiles tripping over a desk—laughing before even finishing the tale, and raising both his sisters’ eyebrows— when his father had held up a hand, interrupted him.

“Stilinski?”

“Mmhm, why?”

Derek’s father had narrowed his eyes, “You can’t be seen being too friendly with that kid, Derek.”

“Why not?”

“His father’s a…”

Derek’s mother had barked out a laugh, given Derek an amused look, “Your father spent _all_ his time at that school fighting with John Stilinski; I don’t think he took me out on a date without a black eye until at least his first year of college. And, he often tried to drag me into helping him prank John.”

“That’s nonsense, Talia, they were not… _pranks_.”

“Why would you—” Derek had pulled a face, “That doesn’t mean I have to be like that with Stiles.”

“It’s not up to you,” Derek’s father’s face had darkened, “Your grandfather won’t abide a friendship; he’s had trouble with the Stilinski’s for decades. Something about that William Stilinski drove him to distraction.”

“I think that something was a _girl_ ,” Talia had said teasingly.

“Be that as it may,” Derek’s father had waved his fork at Derek menacingly, “You’re not to be… bonding with that boy.”

“This is ridiculous,” Derek had retorted, “I’m not going to end my friendship with him based on a stupid feud you had with his dad, and Stiles will think the same.”

Unfortunately, Derek’s assurance Stiles would find it so insane, too, was proven wrong on his first day back at school. Stiles had sat with Scott McCall instead of Derek, had ignored Derek’s attempts at eye contact and then gotten into a huge argument with him in last period. Sitting in detention together, Derek had attempted to garner an explanation from him, but Stiles had merely given a humorless laugh, flexed his fingers from the desk next to Derek.

“You must know what your dad did, there’s no way we can be friends, now,” he’d spat out.

Derek had flinched, pulled back in confusion, “You—how can you just—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles had shrugged, and Derek had been feeling too hurt, too humiliated to spot the obvious shine in Stiles’ eyes, had typed it up to the anger, rather than his own upset.

“It’s not like we’d be friends considering,” Stiles had finished with vehemently. “You’re a spoilt, rich kid and I know enough of those, already.”

“I’m not—” Derek had bitten his tongue, frowned down at his homework. “Fine, whatever.”

“Fine,” Stiles had responded.

“Asshole.”

Stiles had shoved at him from across the desks and they’d leapt at one another.

It had been the first of many fist fights that Finstock had broken up, furiously ranting at them both about decorum and honor. Stiles had scoffed, Derek had scowled, they’d been given detention for a month.

Eventually, the physical fights gave way to the endless pranks. It was as if they no longer wanted to hurt one another (Derek can definitely attest to not wanting to hurt Stiles, is willing to admit there are much more fun, pleasurable ways he’d like to put his hands on Stiles), but they couldn’t let the feud go, couldn’t let one another go.

Derek’s drawn to Stiles, likes what he’s learnt, and incapable of stopping himself from one more prank, one more way to get one over on Stiles and have him come storming in at Derek, all of his beautiful, angry self in Derek’s personal space. He’s addicted.

(Boyd thinks he’s an idiot).

“Go again?” Boyd breaks his thoughts of the past and leans over to grab their water bottles from the side.

Derek nods, “In a sec,” he takes a huge gulp of water, “I think I’m getting better.”

Boyd laughs, “Nah, I hate to break it to you, man, but I’m a little rusty after the summer; no pool to practice in back home.”

“You spent half of July in my pool.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Boyd teases, “But, what happened in August when I went home and you had nothing to do but swim, huh? You spend too much time holed up in your room with your books than outside like the rest of us?”

Derek snorts, “I spent the rest of the summer avoiding my sisters.”

Boyd’s expression softens (he’s very fond of Derek’s sisters, especially Cora, who also happens to be Erica’s best friend), and he shakes his head at Derek. “Enjoy them while you can.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, “That sounded way too much like a veiled threat against them.”

Boyd laughs, “Dumbass, you think everything sounds like a threat; you’ve been spending too much time listening to Stilinski.”

“I didn’t even mention him!”

“You’ve been looking over at him roughly every twelve seconds, dude.”

“You were saying, about my sisters,” Derek deflects, and is relieved when his best friend takes the hint, gives him a significant look to let him know it’s only because he’s doing Derek a solid by shutting up about it. He can’t have Stiles hearing, or even suspecting Derek thinks about him, or looks at him, or spends far too much time imagining scenarios where they go on dates.

“Just enjoy it,” Boyd waves his water bottle at him, “I hardly ever see Alicia now she’s at school in Cali, and when we’re at college next year? Laura’s up state, Cora’ll still be here, you’ll miss them.”

“You only spend time with them when they’re feeling nice,” Derek points out, “They like you. I’m pretty sure if Laura weren’t into girls, she’d want to date you.”

Boyd’s cheeks go red, and he rubs his chin, “Yeah, I have that special vibe with older ladies.”

“The _I’m an idiot and I’ll do anything you say because you’re terrifying to me_ vibe?”

Boyd shoves his head under the water, and Derek laughs, chokes on water and comes back up to punch his shoulder. They wrestle for a couple of minutes, tousling with one another until Derek calls a time out. He doesn’t need a broken nose, too, or worse, to accidentally lose his swimming gear in front of Stiles.

“C’mon,” he winces, “I think I drank half the pool, there.”

“Only cos I was kicking your ass,” Boyd says easily, swings up on to the tiles and proffers his hand to Derek.

Derek accepts, straightens up next to him as Stiles and Scott saunter past.

Stiles seems lost in thought, staring right at Derek’s chest, and Derek snaps his fingers in his face, gains his attention.

“You need something?”

Stiles jumps in shock, slaps Derek’s arm, “Dick, don’t scare a person right by a pool!”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Derek shrugs, “It’s not like you’re gonna get wetter than you already are.”

“Oh,” Stiles pretends to coo, “I could think of a few ways that could be arranged.”

Derek feels his cheeks flame, and without thinking, pushes Stiles right back into the pool.

“Dude!” Scott begins to fall about laughing, holding up his hands in apology when Stiles surfaces, expression shocked. “I’m sorry! It wasn’t that funny!” Scott cracks up again, voice lost in laughter.

Derek preens, glances down at Stiles to give him a casual shrug, “Whoops.”

“I’m gonna get you back so hard for that,” Stiles warns, pushing a hand through his hair. “Seriously, so hard.”

“Bring it on,” Derek says with a wicked grin, and then turns away to the changing rooms.

“Seriously,” Boyd follows, cuffs him over the head with his water bottle. “You really can’t just ask him out like a normal person?”

Derek slips on the wet tiles, hits his friend on the shoulder, “Shut up!”

*

Stiles’ revenge is to saran wrap the toilet, and Derek wakes him up with a soaking bathmat to the head.

*

“What the hell are you doing?” Stiles’ voice breaks the peaceful silence of their dorm room, and Derek almost has a heart attack.  He’d been enjoying the quiet afternoon with Stiles away, and had finally figured his next move for revenge.

“Fuck!” Derek slams away from the desk, snapping Stiles’ laptop shut as he goes.

“What did you do?” Stiles marches across the room, grabs his laptop away from Derek. “What did you do, huh?”

Derek shrugs, leans back in his chair, “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“This is my laptop, Derek, I have schoolwork on here!”

“Like you care about that,” Derek scoffs, “You’re just worried I deleted all your shitty eighties movies.”

“Did you?” Stiles towers over him, eyeballing him hard, “I swear to god, if you did—”

“I gotta say you’re right,” Derek smirks, lifts his arms above his head, “It _is_ super fun watching someone squirm, especially as it’s you.”

“I’m not _squirming_ ,” Stiles huffs, opens his laptop and taps at the keyboard.

“How do you even know my password?”

Derek shrugs, “I’m not giving away a powerful secret like that.”

“You know I’m going to change it in five seconds, asshole.”

“But, you don’t know how I figured it out,” Derek makes sure to ooze smugness, “You don’t know how I got in.”

Stiles kicks out his foot blindly, all the while typing madly on his laptop, and Derek rolls his chair away with a laugh.

“What did you…” Stiles kicks at him again, and then draws up short, “Holy shit, what did you do to my porn?”

“Figures you’d check that first.”

“Duh, I have a refined, perfect collec…” Stiles’ voice trails off as he sees what Derek’s done to his porn collection. It really hadn’t been difficult to find once he cracked Stiles’ password— seriously, who uses their nemesis’ birthday for a password? An idiot, that’s who— and the porn had been right there on the desktop.

Derek cracks his knuckles, tips his head to one side, “Consider us even for the Band-Aids.”

“You— that is— why is every folder filled with pictures of wrestlers?”

“I remember that you liked that one guy enough to stay up all night watching him,” Derek quirks an eyebrow, “Seemed like something you were into.”

Stiles spins to glare at him, “Do you realize. How long. It took me. To set up. All that porn?”

“About as long as it took me to study for my math final that you fucked with last year?”

“One exam!”

“An _exam_ , Stiles, do you hear yourself?”

“You shaved my head!”

“You locked me in a closet for a day and a half!”

“You started all this!”

“I did _not_ ,” Derek seethes, “I thought we’d be fine, that maybe we’d even be friends that first semester.” He feels hot with embarrassment just thinking about how kind and earnest he’d been with Stiles. He remembers the disappointment, the hurt that came with Stiles’ easy dismissiveness of him when they’d returned after Christmas. Derek had been _fourteen_ , self-conscious of his braces and hoping to share some of his neurosis with his new friend, uncaring of his father’s warning. It had been Stiles that had come back a complete asshole.

“ _You_ were the one that came back from the holidays and got me put in detention for the first time ever!”

“I was told to!”

“Oh, and you _always_ do what you’re told.”

“Fuck you! You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know _everything_ about you; I can’t get away from you. You have literally taken up a gigantic part of my damn life!”

“You have so little _actual_ life you’ve had to make it about me?”

Derek launches himself at Stiles, and they crash to the floor, rolling together. Stiles yanks at Derek’s hair, and Derek retaliates, kneeing him in the side and then sitting on his legs.

“I can’t escape you,” Derek hisses, shoving Stiles’ shoulders and making him wince. “All I wanted was to work hard, to get good grades.”

“Like a freaking _pansy_ ,” Stiles snaps back, punches him clean across the face.

Derek falls backwards, throws his feet up just in time to stop Stiles getting closer and kicking at his hands. His left foot catches Stiles under the chin, and Stiles loses his footing, slips and lands on the floor.

“I am _not_ a pansy,” Derek pants out, crawls over to shove at Stiles’ face.

Stiles catches his hands and pulls, dragging Derek over him and holding him steady.

“Yeah? Come on then, hit me again.”

Derek goes still, hovering over him. He wants to lean in and _kiss_ him fiercely, take everything Stiles’ll let him have, thrust against him until they’re both coming on the shitty dorm floor. But, Stiles’ eyes have too much of a challenge behind them. Stiles is angry, maybe _hates_ Derek, and he wants Derek’s pain, wants to hurt him, he doesn’t want Derek the way Derek wants him, has maybe always wanted him. Since that very first day when their eyes met and Derek had felt a rush of heat behind his ears, felt his throat go dry as Stiles had sat down next to him and introduced himself.  He doesn’t want this sort of relationship with Stiles; he doesn’t know why he even bothered messing with Stiles’ laptop when they’ve been perhaps even progressing into a tentative friendship. He’d just been worried Stiles might start ignoring him altogether, and then he’d be left with no Stiles at all.

But, he can’t do it like this, he can’t force something that isn’t there.

“Forget it,” Derek says quietly, sits up and away from Stiles.

The fight seems to drain out of Stiles all at once, and he throws an arm over his face, groans loudly.

“You always quit on me, man, just when things are getting interesting.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “I hardly see how rolling around on the floor together like idiots is considered interesting.”

“You’ll get there, one day,” Stiles crooks a grin at him, stretches out, and to Derek’s horror, his hand makes contact with Derek’s sketchbook, hidden neatly under the bed.

“Hey! What’s this?” Stiles begins to tug it out, and Derek dives for it, snatches it from his hand.

“That’s mine; and it’s _private_ ,” he adds in a warning tone.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles throws a weak hand in the air, “I’m not gonna read your diary.”

“It’s not my—look, just keep away from my stuff,” Derek puts his sketchbook into the bottom drawer of their shared desk. He spins around to grab his gym bag, rifles through it until he finds the handcuffs and snaps them around the drawer handle.

“You’re so uptight,” Stiles struggles to a stand, wiggles his eyebrows at him, “You need some _alone time_ to let loose a little?”

Derek scoffs, even as his cheeks heat up, “I would suggest you have _your_ alone time, but seeing as all your porn is gone.”

Stiles’ face falls, “I’d forgotten about that, man! You suck!”

“Sure, if you need _that_ mental imagery to get you through,” Derek replies loftily, heads out of the room with a smug, backwards glance over his shoulder to see Stiles opening and closing his mouth on soundless retorts.

Despite his bleeding lip and bruised face, he feels stupidly triumphant; he’s _finally_ won one.

*

For over a week, the pranks between Stiles and Derek die down. Derek’s not sure whether maybe the fight wore it out of them, or that Stiles has run out of ideas, but he’s grateful, either way. He’d like to think they’re back on track to actually _getting along_. In math the day before, Stiles had lent over Derek to read his answers to a particularly hard question and written NERD on Derek’s hand before he could stop him.

“I can’t believe you didn’t even use a calculator,” he’d cried.

Derek had tried not to preen too much, avoided the smug look Boyd had given him and spent far too much time watching Stiles chew on his pencil for the rest of class.

To his surprise, on Friday night they actually spend an evening in peaceful silence studying. At one point, Stiles gets up to grab a soda from the vending machine at the end of the corridor, and _brings one back for Derek_.

“Thanks,” he says slowly, eyeing Stiles apprehensively. “Did you…”

“It’s not poisoned,” Stiles rolls his eyes, “Before you ask, but if you need proof,” he switches their drinks, opens both and juts his chin at them. “You can have, either.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, “Is this to be a battle of wits?”

Stiles smirks, throws himself back into his chair and picks up one of the drinks and takes a purposeful sip, “I could have just poisoned both.”

“Steady on, Westley,” Derek huffs, taking his own drink.

Stiles’ face breaks out into a grin, “So, you have seen _some_ good movies, then! I was beginning to worry.”

Derek gives him a flat look, “What’s a movie. I was referring to the book.”

“You’ve _read_ _The Princess Bride_ ,” Stiles narrows his eyes at him, “Are you fucking with me?”

It’s Derek’s turn to smirk, and he takes another sip of his drink, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“As I recall, that was me, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” Derek avoids eye contact, not quite ready to relive the humiliation.

Stiles seems to take the hint, hums purposefully, “The fish in the case was genius.”

“Thanks,” Derek smirks, “I figured I’d do my own version of _The Godfather_.”

“It was inspired,” Stiles agrees, “If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by the gross smell, I’d have been impressed.”

“That almost sounded like praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Derek smiles at him, and there’s a beat as Stiles smiles back at him. They both clear their throats, after a moment, and Derek goes back to his math homework.

Stiles flicks an eraser at him, “The _best_ time was probably when I dyed your eyebrows pink.”

“You have an obsession with my eyebrows,” Derek complains, rubbing one finger across them, “What’s that about?”

“Just like ‘em, I guess,” Stiles shrugs, sticks a highlighter between his teeth, “They deserve attention.”

Derek swallows, tries to regain his footing in the face of Stiles’ expression; soft and almost fond as he looks back at Derek.

“Not the kind of attention you give them; dyeing them and sticking god damn band aids on them.”

Stiles grins around the highlighter, “Keeps _your_ attention, though, doesn’t it?”

“It keeps me _frustrated_ ,” Derek corrects, and then bites his tongue as Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “Not like _that_.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles sits back in his chair, removes the highlighter to take a sip of his drink.

“Stop being smug and do some studying.”

Stiles full on beams at him, “You’re _cute_ when you’re flustered.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek huffs, turns back to his books and resolutely pretends his cheeks aren’t burning. “Have you even seen _The Princess Bride_ , or do you just know so many damn movie references you skate by on that?”

“I uh,” Stiles scratches behind the back of his ear, gives Derek a softer, sad smile, “Yeah. It was my mom’s favorite movie.”

Derek sits back, pulls a sympathetic face, “Oh, shit, Stiles—”

“It’s okay,” Stiles ducks his head, “Well, you know, it’s not, you know?”

“Yeah,” Derek clears his throat, swallows hard as he watches Stiles look at his hands.

Stiles sniffs, looks back up at him, “Man, you sure know how to kill a good mood.”

Derek feels his eyes widen in horror and Stiles laughs, flicks his highlighter at Derek’s head. “It’s okay, dude, I’m not gonna kill you in your sleep for revenge. I can talk about her. It was a long time ago.”

“Still,” Derek winces, “That’s the worst.”

“Yeah,” Stiles rubs at his ear, “Kinda like _your_ taste in movies.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but lets Stiles lead the conversation back to happier, easy banter.

“Says the guy that thinks _Twister_ is the ultimate disaster movie.”

“Bill Paxton literally leads the best life in that, dude. He chases _tornados_.”

“Twisters.”

“Same thing! It’s awesome! Plus, he makes out with Helen Hunt.”

Derek hums, “Yeah, she’s pretty.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrows, begins messing with the papers in front of him, “Oh, so, blondes are your thing?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I don’t—she has nice eyes, I like brown eyes,” Derek stops himself as he glances up at Stiles (and his own beautiful, brown eyes), feels his face heat up. “Although, hers are more hazel, I think? I don’t know; it’s been years since I actually felt like punishing myself enough to watch that movie.”

Stiles smirks, “I think I know what we’re watching next.”

“No.”

“Yes, Derek, and _Armageddon_.”

“No, if we’re doing Bruce Willis—”

“He’s not my type, but okay.”

“Shut up!” Derek throws a pen at him, “ _Fifth Element_ , and you’ve got yourself a deal. No _Armageddon_ ; I can’t deal with that much mushy stuff.”

“But, Liv Tyler’s such a babe!”

“Tall, dark and _beautiful_ ,” Derek smirks, “ _That’s_ your type, then?”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles looks at him intently, runs a hand along his soda can as he nods, “Yeah, that’s my type.”

Derek feels his mouth go dry at the expression on Stiles’ face, doesn’t know what to do with himself as he looks back. He reaches for his own drink, and knocks it wide off the table.

“Shit!”

Stiles launches backwards and grabs a towel from the side, hands it to Derek without a word.

“Thanks,” Derek mumbles, watching the way Stiles deliberately lets their fingers brush. “I, uh, I have to go copy a new version of this,” he holds up a soaking wet page of equations.

“I got it,” Stiles takes the sheet, winks at Derek as he heads out the door. “You focus on getting your nerd work dry.”

“It’s your work, too!”

“I don’t care about the _work_ ,” Stiles scoffs.

“Then why were you even studying with me?!”

“Duh,” Stiles tuts, shakes his head at him, “ _Duh_ , Hale.”

Derek stares after him in shock, feels suddenly warm despite the cold soda dripping down his leg; Stiles wanted to spend time with _him_.

He returns with fresh homework sheets ten minutes later, and although Derek is too much of a chicken shit to mention what Stiles had implied, he lets Stiles choose the music they listen to as they finish up. He even tests out pressing his foot against Stiles’, late in the evening, and Stiles hums loudly, pushes his own back against Derek’s without looking up.

*

Derek wakes in the middle of the night, and realizes the room is short one loud mouth breather. He straightens up to examine Stiles’ bed, empty and the sheets tangled at the end. It’s the weekend; but Stiles had opted not to go out, hence their unusually peaceful night in studying together.

He tries not to be concerned, but he can’t help but worry about Stiles. He shoves his feet in his sneakers, wondering where Stiles might have disappeared to. Stiles hasn’t ever claimed sleep walking to be a problem, but sometimes he has night terrors.

In some unspoken agreement, Derek has never used them against Stiles, and in return, Stiles has never brought Derek’s sisters into their pranks. The off limits have never been openly acknowledged, but Derek knows for a fact Laura loves Stiles. She dotes on him at every social event. It’s made him grind his teeth in the past, made him resent Stiles even more. But, in hindsight he’s extremely grateful. His father might have encouraged the feud, but Laura and his mother have always been dead set against it. His mother worries enough already that Derek hasn’t got any friends, misses out on being sociable to bury his nose in books. Derek has to send her photographs of nights out just to prove he leaves school property. It would devastate her to know that the infamous Hale— Stilinski feud has reached such an intense, violent climax, but he’s been lucky neither Cora nor Laura have been brought into it, and so, have never told his mother.

After checking the bathrooms, he slips down the stairs onto the main corridor leading towards the cafeteria and the school hall. After hours, everyone is either asleep or holed away in their rooms, and the hushed, dark atmosphere makes the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck stand up. It feels like someone’s watching him, or that Stiles is going to jump out of a god damn coat of armor to scare the shit out of him.

There’s no one in the cafeteria and he sneaks past the empty tables, and on into the kitchen, praying he doesn’t get caught.

It’s with an odd mix of relief and disappointment that he doesn’t find Stiles with his nose stuck in one of the student fridges, or sitting at one of the long preparation tables, eating ice cream, or something else ridiculous he might have been craving at two am.

“Stiles,” he chances a whisper, peers into the freezer (just in case), and one of the fully stocked larders.

The quiet is beginning to weird him out, and he decides to try calling Stiles when he gets back to the room. He’s still a little concerned Stiles has done something stupid; like falling out of a window, but there’s not much—

The kitchen doors slam open and Finstock stalks in with a bowl and the newspaper.

Derek shrinks back between two shelving units in horror. He’s _fucked_. What was he thinking coming to look for Stiles in the middle of the night?! Stiles has probably set him up, is sitting back in their room laughing at Derek.

“God damn seniors, eating all the good stuff,” Finstock mutters to himself, opening the freezer closest to Derek. “Ah ha!”

Derek flinches, expecting to have been caught, but there’s no sudden Finstock glaring at him. When he peeks around the corner, Finstock’s settling in at one of the benches with a pint of ice cream. Derek rolls his eyes at the ceiling. Of course his coach has a secret ice cream eating habit.

As carefully as he can, he backs towards the far doors, eyes on Finstock.

There’s a crash from somewhere in the second kitchen and Finstock jumps up, spins just seconds after Derek’s ducked under a table.

“Who’s there?” Finstock marches towards the far doors and Derek takes his chance, leaps for the closest exit as Finstock disappears.

He flees down the corridor, heart pounding and almost yells in shock when someone claps a hand over his mouth, drags him back into the store cupboard behind them.

“Thefuckareyou—” Derek tries to spin, catches sight of Stiles behind him, and feels himself deflate slightly. “Stiles, get off me—”

“Shush,” Stiles breathes against the back of his neck, and Derek tries not to visibly shiver.

“But—”

Stiles’ fingers tighten against his mouth, and he leans in to whisper in Derek’s ear, “Finstock heard me; I had to run.”

“What were you _doing_ in the kitchens at two am?” Derek hisses, manages to elbow Stiles and Stiles yelps in pain, steps away from him and into a mop bucket. He makes a hash of trying to regain his balance, and Derek helps him catch the mop before it falls, ignores Stiles using his shoulder to steady himself in the meantime and then hurries to listen at the door.

He can hear Finstock pacing the corridor, muttering to himself, and Derek shrinks away from the crack under the door, just in case their coach notices the movement.

“Is he gone?” Stiles presses up against him and Derek shrugs him off, rounds to face him in the darkness.

“No,” Derek snaps, “He’s right outside, shut up!”

“You shut up!”

“God,” Derek struggles to try and push past Stiles and into the space of the cupboard. “This is just like you; dragging me out of bed at all hours; getting me into the worst kinds of trouble when I haven’t even asked for it!”

“Hey, you didn’t need to be here,” Stiles retorts indignantly, “Why were you even out of bed?”

“I was looking for you!”

Stiles blinks at him in the darkness, expression surprised, “Why?”

“Because, believe it or not, I actually care about your wellbeing,” Derek shrugs awkwardly, leans against the shelves of cleaning supplies. “You’ve been acting weird all day and when I woke up and you weren’t… it doesn’t matter,” he scrubs a hand across his face. “We’re fucked now, anyway.”

Stiles is still looking at him, an odd look on his face, but then he nods, looks away, “Sorry.”

Derek feels his eyebrows shoot up, “Did you just— are you apologizing?”

“Just for this,” Stiles glances at him, almost sheepishly, and realization dawns on Derek.

“You were planning a prank. You’ve been weird because you’ve been up to something and—I’m the fucking idiot that—” he stops himself, clenches his jaw angrily, “I thought we’d gotten past this!”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what the hell are you doing down here?”

Stiles clamps his mouth shut, hunches his shoulders up and backs into the corner of the closet.

Derek stares him down, “You just can’t let it go, can you?

“It wasn’t for a prank, Jesus!”

“Then—”

“Mind your own business, Hale, god damn, why can’t you ever leave me alone?”

“It’s not my fault you’re constantly doing stuff that might get me into trouble, too,” Derek loses his temper, shoves at him. “I have to keep watch, or you might just completely fuck me.”

Stiles snorts, bats Derek’s hands away and pushes him back, presses him up against the wall. “Like you’d know what a good fucking would look like, anyway, Derek.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek seethes.

“Make me,” Stiles snaps back.

He’s so close, and he’s so god damn smug, Derek can’t help but fist his hands in his shirt, spins them until Stiles is the one leaning against the wall.

Stiles’ eyes are blown wide, amusement dancing in them, but there’s something else in there, too, something Derek recognizes in himself; something a lot like _want_. He lets out an aggrieved, almost impatient noise as he closes the distance between them, kisses Stiles hard.

“Finally,” Stiles mutters, not pushing Derek away, but instead grabbing at Derek’s t-shirt, hauling him in even closer, kissing him back fiercely.

Derek feels like a lit fuse, like he might explode out of his skin, Stiles’ lips firm and warm against his, sending shivers down his spine every time they meet. Stiles’ hands fan out, slide up his collarbones and settle at his neck, tugging demandingly as they kiss. Derek doesn’t know how much Stiles wants, but he’s desperate to find out, has never wanted anything more.

“We should—”

“Definitely not stop,” Stiles cuts in, rolls his hips against Derek’s in a way that has Derek’s breath catching.

“God, no, shush,” Derek claps a hand over his mouth, feels a pang of regret at covering them up, but he needs to check the Finstock situation.

“Bossy,” Stiles huffs into his palm, follows it up with a lick and Derek winces, yanks his hand away.

“Cut it out,” he peers through the crack in the door, doesn’t even bother trying not to press back when Stiles half blankets himself over him.

“C’mon, let’s just stay here,” Stiles says in a wheedling voice. “It’s taken me long enough to get you to even think about kissing me, d’you know how many unnecessary food items I’ve eaten in front of you?”

Derek snorts, twists to arch an eyebrow at him, “You’ve never thought an item of food was unnecessary in your life.”

“Be that as it may, I’d really like to _get back to the kissing_.”

“We can’t,” Derek hisses, “God, do you ever think about these things? We’re out of bed—”

“Well, we could always—”

“Out of bed,” Derek continues furiously, “On a school night, and our vice principal is scouring the school looking for us!”

“He doesn’t know it’s us,” Stiles retorts.

“Oh yeah, sure, because _Scott_ is the rebellious sort.”

“Don’t bring Scott into this.”

“I wish you’d never even brought _me_ into this!” Derek whirls around, winces at how hurt Stiles looks, before steeling himself. “Let’s just get back to the room, in one piece before we both get expelled.”

“Sure, priorities,” Stiles huffs.

“Shut up!”

Stiles rolls his eyes, grabs the front of Derek’s t-shirt before he can say anything else and kisses him again.

Derek can’t help but melt into it for a moment before he pulls away, stares at Stiles, desperate for some sort of answer in his eyes.

“I don’t—”

Stiles ducks his head, steps around him, “Right, sure. Let’s go.”

He opens the door to the empty corridor, gestures for Derek to follow him, and they walk back to their room in a stony silence.

*

Derek doesn’t go out the night after, instead he stays in and listens to Nine Inch Nails, trying and failing not to feel pathetic about it. Before the kiss he and Stiles had been less at each other’s throats than ever, and there’d been an _atmosphere_ , he’s sure of it.

They’d been moving around each other much more carefully, _gently_ , almost.  At one point, during one of their afternoon basketball games, Stiles had flown over to hug Derek after a particularly good shot Derek had made, and then they’d accidentally stayed glued to one another for a moment too long. Stiles had seemingly realized they were still playing, had shoved at his shoulder easily and darted away with a laugh. Derek had taken forever to get back into the game, still feeling the warmth of Stiles wrapped around him.

Jackson had thrown a ball at his head that Derek knows was on purpose; Jackson doesn’t need a reason to be a dick to any of them, but Derek suspects it was because he’d gone from playing a great game to being absolutely useless.

They’d spent Saturday avoiding one another, not speaking or even making eye contact, and it had been a painful relief when Stiles had left, leaving Derek to hide out under the covers and feel sorry for himself.  

He just couldn’t bring himself to go out, and spend the night being ignored, or _worse_ , watching Stiles dance with Lydia again.

Boyd refuses to text him updates, but Erica sends him a snapchat of them beaming, and he scowls at his phone, wishes he could allow himself to have a normal social life. If only he was a normal _person_.

Stiles comes stumbling in through the door at three thirty, drunk and loud, and pats Derek’s face until Derek snaps awake.

“Ah, fuck, what— Stiles! You’re sitting on me!”

“Dude, Derek! I just wanted to say, okay, you, okay, so you played a really good game, today, okay. And, and I know we weren’t talking, but, but I missed you, you know?”

Derek tries not to give in, can’t bear to think that Stiles is only saying any of this because of how drunk he is.

“Get off my bed.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, goes to stand and hits his head on the mattress springs above him, “Ahhh!” He clutches at his head, and Derek squeezes his eyes shut with a muffled groan; this _cannot_ be his life.

“Christ,” he snaps, throwing back the bed covers and standing to stop Stiles from moving around. “Keep still!”

“’M’I dead? Is my skull open?”

“There’s a scar from the previous injury when your brain fell out,” Derek tells him gravely.

Stiles spins to look at him in horror, hands flying up to his head, “What, there’s a—”

Derek snorts, and Stiles pauses, lowers his arms to point at him.

“Oh, funny, you— you’re a funny guy, Derek, underneath all the dick behavior. Heh, dick,” Stiles trails off, staring at his hand, “Oh my god, am I bleeding?”

“Let me see,” Derek bats his hands out of the way, peers at Stiles’ dark hair in the gloom. “I can’t tell,” he curls his own fingers around Stiles’ wrist, yanks him into the bathroom and flicks on the light.

Stiles is making small, panicked hiccup noises, and Derek sits him on the toilet, examines his head further.

“Yeah,” he sighs, throws his own head back for a second, “Yeah, you’re bleeding and you’re a fucking idiot.”

“You’re the idiot,” Stiles replies in a slurred voice. “Are you wearing bed socks?”

“I get cold feet, and shut up, I can’t _believe_ how much an idiot you are!” Derek strides over to the sink, runs cold water over a towel.

“M’not an idiot; I got you good with the Band-Aids.”

“So much for me helping you,” Derek snaps, tosses the wet towel at his face. “Good luck,” he snaps icily, marches back into the bedroom.

“Der’k, wait!”

Stiles staggers after him, and without warning collapses on Derek’s bed; sitting right on Derek’s feet _seconds_ before he’s managed to get them under the covers.

He fixes Derek with a sad, pitiful look. “Please help me.”

Derek makes an aggrieved noise, but takes the towel and presses it to the bump on the back of Stiles’ head.

“God, Stiles, I’m _so_ tired,” Derek groans, rubs at his face with his free hand, “I have a lit test on Monday and I need to study all day, tomorrow.”

“’M’sorry,” Stiles moans, winces when Derek must apply too much pressure. “Just for this,” he adds quickly, “Not anything else.”

Derek rolls his eyes, takes the towel away to peer at Stiles’ head.

“’S’it bad?” Stiles turns to look at him; and their eyes meet in the darkness. Derek sucks in a breath, holds Stiles’ gaze. Stiles wets his lips, his eyes flicking over Derek’s face quickly. “You speechless in the face ‘f my awesome blood?”

Derek snorts, drops the towel off the side of the bed, “Sure, okay.”

“’M jus’ gonna lie down f’r a second,” Stiles leans in towards Derek.

“No, no—” Derek yanks his legs away, just in time for Stiles to sprawl right across Derek’s bed. “No! _Stiles_.”

“Shush,” Stiles reaches out, pats Derek’s ankle clumsily, and Derek jabs his toes back at him in retaliation. “Stop! Derek, be still, shhh! Your bed is so c’mfy.” Stiles yawns widely and then seems to fall promptly asleep. In Derek’s bed.

Derek stares down at his stupid roommate slash _nemesis_ and sighs; it’s not fair that Stiles looks like he belongs, right next to him. Stiles’ hand is still curled around Derek’s ankle, and there’s a small, ridiculous smile on his face. There’s dried blood on his cheek, and Derek reaches for the towel carefully, wipes at it until Stiles hums, scrunches his face into _Derek’s_ sheets.

“I’m not happy about this,” he tells Stiles’ sleeping form.

He has two options; awkwardly climb out of bed and sleep on the top bunk; or try to curve his body around Stiles’ and sleep next to him.  Stiles lets out a snuffle, throws an arm over Derek’s stomach and takes away Derek’s choice completely.

Derek tries to resist, attempts to remove Stiles’ hand, but Stiles clutches at his t-shirt like Derek’s a life raft and he’s a drowning man.

“You’re taking the blame for this, tomorrow,” he warns.

Stiles hums in his sleep, smiles stupidly. Derek tells himself it’s not adorable.

*

Derek comes to slowly, deliciously warm, with someone breathing against the back of his neck. He freezes, feels the arm slung across his stomach tense and rolls over in a panic. Stiles gives him a sheepish smile, was clearly awake before Derek considering he’s not nearly as close to freaking out as Derek is, and the fact his eyes are bright and alert. He’s watching Derek’s reactions like a hawk.

“Hey,” he rasps, not moving despite how close their faces are.

“Hey yourself,” Derek manages, rubs at his face, “’Time is it?”

Stiles shrugs, “Hell if I know, I’ve been stuck between a wall and a hard place.” He wiggles his eyebrows pointedly, glances between them to where their chests are now plastered together. “I’m guessing this was my idea?”

Derek rolls his eyes, reluctantly disentangles himself from underneath Stiles— he’s not nearly awake enough, or ready enough, to deal with Stiles spooning him, let alone sleeping next to him— and sits up.

“Yes, it was your idea; you wouldn’t get out of my bed.”

“I do have a propensity to enjoy company when I’m drunk,” Stiles grins, and it makes Derek’s stomach swoop. He promptly stomps down on any feelings of excitement, as he’s sure Stiles is implying Derek was merely just a warm body to curl up next to, he won’t take anything more from it.

“Happy to have obliged, now get up, get out, it’s Sunday and I need at least another three hours sleep before studying.”

“So, lie back down,” Stiles pats the pillow, “You can even have the clean side.”

“It’s all my side, it’s my bed.”

Stiles yanks on his arm, “Shut up and go back to sleep; I’m too hungover to deal with you trying to be angry when you’re tired; ‘s’adorable, really.”

“I am not adorable.”

“’Kay,” Stiles hums, trails his hand along Derek’s arm and then pauses, runs a finger along the long, clean scar that’s no longer pink, but still fresh enough to be raised. “Where d’you get this?”

Derek arches an eyebrow, and Stiles opens his eyes in time to see Derek’s unimpressed face.

“What?”

“I got that when you knocked me through a plate glass window.”

“I did not,” Stiles argues instantly, “You slipped.”

“Because you’d just jumped out of a closet at me, in what I thought was an empty art room!”

Stiles grimaces, “Shit, I didn’t realize you got all scarred up because of that.” He looks up at Derek, and his expression is deeply sincere, “I’m sorry, man.”

Derek shrugs awkwardly, hyper aware of Stiles’ fingers still trailing up and down his arm.

“It’s not like I haven’t given you your fair share of battle scars.”

“Too right,” Stiles squirms around in the bed clothes and to Derek’s horror/delight begins to pull up his shirt. “Check it out,” he beams up at Derek as he points at a shiny patch of skin just under his left pectoral. “From that super hot baseball incident.”

“Jesus, I didn’t know that burnt you,” Derek reaches out to touch the burn and then stops himself, winces, “We’ve really done some bodily harm.”

“Yep, and not even the good kind,” Stiles adds quietly, flicks a glance up at Derek.

Derek hums, unable to looks away as Stiles gazes at him, his eyes dropping to Derek’s mouth for a moment, before looking back up at him.

“I’m um,” Stiles wets his lips, leans in closer, “Derek.”

“Mm?” Derek clears his throat, “Ah, yeah?”

“I’m gonna try something, okay?”

“I think so,” Derek breathes out, “I mean, I think, if you’re gonna try, what I think you’re gonna—”

Stiles huffs out a soft laugh and leans in, presses their lips together.

Derek can feel his heart beating hard against his chest, his blood rushing in his ears, the soft pressure of Stiles’ lips against his. He leans in closer, the covers crinkling between them as he reaches up to touch Stiles’ face, ever so carefully cupping his jaw as he kisses him back. It’s the total opposite of their first kiss; there’s no anger or frustration, only the gentle pressure of Stiles’ lips, warm and wonderful in a way that makes Derek’s toes curl.

Stiles hums, drags his own hands up Derek’s arms, clutching at his shoulders tightly. They’re both breathing hard when they break, but Stiles doesn’t let go, stays in his space, their mouths still almost touching.

“Was that… I mean,” he narrows his eyes as he looks at Derek. “Was that okay?”

Derek grins, “Were you gonna ask if that was good for me?”

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t know—” Derek cuts him off with another kiss, harder this time, desperate and hungry for Stiles’ mouth against his. Stiles makes a surprised noise, but he’s smiling and Derek presses his thumb to the curve of it, moans when Stiles nips at his bottom lip, runs his tongue along it and then the top of his thumb.

Derek breaks the kiss to touch Stiles’ lips properly, amazed that Stiles lets him, before cupping his jaw to kiss him again.

Stiles’ own hands are wandering up and down his back, caressing his shoulders until he tugs, brings Derek down on top of him. Derek groans at the sensation, pressed down against Stiles, their legs tangling and Stiles’ dick, hard against his hip.

“Is this—we should, talk? It—this didn’t end well, last time.”

Stiles grins, pushes up against him in a way that makes Derek see stars, “No talking. I think we should keep doing this.”

“But, we—I didn’t think you even _liked_ me,” Derek blurts out, freezes where he is, hovering over Stiles and suddenly feeling horribly vulnerable. “You—you’ve barely spoken to me all week!”

“Derek, _what_.”

To his horror, Stiles lets out a burst of laughter, and Derek tries to sit up properly, to scurry far away from him despite the small confines of the bunk.

“Just, _don’t_ , Stiles.”

“I’m not laughing at you, oh my god,” Stiles sits up, manages to half climb onto Derek and pin him down, hisses when their still hard cocks brush together. Derek tries not to react, tries not to let his hands reach for Stiles, even as much as they want to, stares determinedly at a spring above them.

“Go away.”

“Would you listen?”

“ _You_ listen.”

“That isn’t even a good come back, _god_ , for someone so smart you have the worst smack talk.”

“I don’t want to have smack talk, I like you!”

Stiles blinks at him, and then smiles softly, “Yeah, me too.”

Derek swallows, looks at the top of the bunk again, instead of at Stiles, “But, you, you’re always so pissed at me.”

“You started it!”

“No, I didn’t! I don’t need this, Jesus.”

“Derek, shut up,” Stiles claps a hand over his mouth, exhales sharply. “I like you, _so much_. I am not good at showing it, shit, I don’t even know how it happened, okay? One minute we were, you know, trying to kill each other, and then the next I was aiming water balloons at your head and it hit me, like, I was crushing on you. So bad. I just… this,” he gestures between them, “It was all I knew. I knew how to wind you up and fight with you and make you _see_ me.”

“But, you said, your dad—”

“I don’t care about our stupid parents feud, okay. Not anymore. And,” Stiles bites his lip, looks at him sincerely, “I’m sorry, Derek.”

Derek narrows his eyes at him, “For which part.”

“For all of it!”

“Oh,” Derek feels shocked, swallows again. “All of it?”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sorry I was a dick when… when I came back. I panicked. I have so much pressure from my dad, shit he doesn’t even mean to put on me, but I’m here, you know? And, he was so worried you were gonna bully me because of your dad.”

“I just wanted to be friends!” Derek feels his cheeks burn and wishes he didn’t blush, that he could take some sort of damn pill to stop emotions showing on his damn face at all.

Stiles doesn’t look like he’s going to tease Derek, though, instead he runs a hand down Derek’s face, leans in and kisses him softly. Derek lets him, kisses him back even though he’s terrified, still worried this is all a huge prank.

“I don’t, uh, just wanna be friends,” Stiles says quietly. “I know we’ve put each other through a lot, I can see it,” he adds, touching the scar on Derek’s arm again. “But, I like you, and, I’m sorry I avoided you after that kiss, I just… I didn’t want you to shoot me down. I was scared I’d ruined _any_ sort of chance we had.”

“I should have made you talk to me,” Derek sighs, “I’m supposed to be the mature one, I guess.”

Stiles flips him off, rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. But, I dunno, I think you like me, too?”

Derek scowls across at him, “Are you fishing for compliments? Now?”

“Look, I’ve just put myself out there, a whole lot; the least you could do is let me know I’m not sitting on a lone bone, here!”

Derek throws his head back, “Jesus, you have the worst turns of phrase!”

“But?”

“But, I like you, too,” Derek looks back at him, nods nervously, “A _lot_.”

“Glad we got that straightened out,” Stiles grins, suddenly looking less shy and much more _sly_ as he reaches for the front of Derek’s t-shirt. “Although, not _too_ straight.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “I can’t believe I like you as much as I do.”

“I can’t believe I like someone that walked around with Band-Aids on his face all day.”

Stiles kisses him before Derek can argue that it was his fault, and he can’t bring himself to mind. He runs his hands up Stiles’ sides, pushes him back again until they’re sprawled out on the bed, feet hanging off the edge in a way that makes Stiles laugh, wiggle his toes against Derek’s.

Derek rolls their hips together curiously, just to see the effect it has, and Stiles’ laughter fades into a moan. He squeezes Derek’s shoulders tightly, pushes back against him.

“Do that again.”

Derek obliges, resting one elbow above their heads to prop himself up, wants to see Stiles properly as they grind together.

Stiles rolls his eyes, grabs the back of Derek’s neck, “No science, just do what feels good.”

“I want to make sure it feels good for y—” Derek starts to say, but Stiles cuts him off with another bruising kiss.

“Nerd,” Stiles mumbles, running his fingers through Derek’s hair.

“Seems to work for you.”

“I’m not arguing,” Stiles’ hand slips down to the edge of Derek’s sweats, “You wanna find out what else works?”

Derek laughs, is so relieved that Stiles is here, that it’s real and that he’s with someone that can make him laugh. He’s nervous, shaky with adrenaline and panic that he’ll do something stupid and turn Stiles off, but the nerves are nothing compared to how good he feels. He nods, shuffles to let Stiles tug at his sweats until they’re off completely.

“Cool,” Stiles says in a strangled voice, staring at Derek’s dick. “That’s just, that’s cool, cool—”

“Stiles, stop looking at it and do something?”

“Right, sorry, it’s just, you know you’re into guys but then you see _that_ and it’s like, yeah, I wanna do _so much_ to it, you know, definitely into guys, or you, singularly. Super, really, into you.”

Derek feels a surge of confidence at how enamored Stiles seems, feels brave enough to wrap a hand around his cock and shoot Stiles a look when he tears his gaze to Derek’s face in protest.

“Well, if you’re not going to…”

“Oh, I see how it is, yeah, no, I am _on_ this.”

Stiles surges up to kiss him, bats at his hand until it’s replaced with his own and Derek groans at how good it feels, how fucking perfect Stiles’ fingers feel wrapped around him.

Derek loses himself in Stiles’ kisses, mindlessly bucking into Stiles’ hand and letting his own roam along Stiles’ back. He’s warm and flushed against Derek, his face screwed up in concentration as jerks Derek off and Derek can’t get enough.

“Can you—” he drops his hand to Stiles’ boxers, tugs at them blindly, “Stiles, take them off.”

“Oh god, I don’t know how long I’ll last if we—”

“I thought you’d done this a bunch of times before?”

“Yeah, by myself!”

“But, you said—all those people that were into, you know,” Derek touches Stiles’ kiss swollen lips, can’t help but lean in and kiss them again. “There were people.”

Stiles grins again, wiggles his eyebrows, “Was just trynna make you jealous. Besides, there _are_ people that are into this.”

“Yeah, so you said,” Derek huffs.

“Oh my god, so it did make you jealous?”

Derek rolls his eyes, “Duh, Stilinski.”

Stiles beams, curls into him, “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Stop being so fucking smug,” Derek says crossly.

“No, no, I’m enjoying the moment.”

Derek rolls his eyes, uses both his hands to push Stiles’ boxers down and Stiles’ expression morphs into one of complete pleasure as Derek finally gets his hands on Stiles’ dick.

“Oh, god, Derek.”

Derek hums his agreement, kisses him again. They’re a mess of limbs and slick skin, both of them clumsy with their hands as they rock against one another, kissing endlessly. Stiles eventually gets them both in hand, and Derek squeezes his eyes shut at how good it feels. He can’t help the litany of small noises he’s making, breathing hard into Stiles’ mouth as they push-pull one another over the edge.

Stiles comes first, lets out a surprised noise before pressing his face into Derek’s neck and biting down, sucking over the skin in a way that makes Derek throw his head back, pushes him into coming all over their hands.

“Cool,” Stiles groans, goes boneless against Derek and grins at him. “That was cool.”

Derek smiles back, stupidly happy as Stiles uses the covers to wipe their stomachs.

“You wanna do it again?”

“Yeah,” Derek rolls into him, tugs at his t-shirt, “Take this off.”

“Gettin’ me naked before a first date, god, I’m so easy.”

“I knew that already,” Derek says dismissively, then pauses, arches an eyebrow. “Do you wanna go on a date?”

“I kinda figured that would be the plan,” Stiles says in a casual voice Derek can see _right through_.

“Stiles, do you want to _date_ me?”

“Duh,” Stiles snaps crossly, “But, right this second I can’t think why; you’re a pain in the ass.”

Derek can’t help the beam that stretches across his face, wraps his arms around Stiles and pulls him in close. He touches Stiles’ face, runs his thumbs along his cheekbones, kisses his cheek.

“I wanna date you, too, dumbass.”

Stiles squirms in his arms, opens one eye to look at him, “Okay, cool.”

“Cool,” Derek mimics.

“Shut up, asshole.”

*

Needless to say, Derek doesn’t study for his lit test, but he does learn that Stiles likes it when Derek kisses his neck, learns that he likes it when Stiles clutches at his thighs so tightly his hands leave bruises, and that their mutually shared competitive streak means he comes three times in an hour. He’s looking forward to further research, to know what Stiles looks like when Derek blows him, and how it will feel to have Stiles’ oh so delicious mouth around Derek. He wants to know what it would be like to have sex with Stiles, for Stiles to fuck him, for them both to do as much as they can in the confines of a very small bed with neighboring students and—

Oh god, he has a lit test in ten minutes he hasn’t studied for, and he’s suddenly wishing he was still in bed with Stiles.

“Hale!”

Derek almost jumps right into his closed locker, bashes his shoulder into it, instead, and turns to scowl at his coach.

“Sir?”

“How’s it going with you and Stilinski?”

Derek arches an eyebrow, “Sir?”

“Don’t play coy with me, kid; I’ve seen a definite improvement in your behavior since the two of you moved in together.”

“We didn’t _move in together."_  (God, will he still be with Stiles at a point when they might move in together? Will Stiles still like him? What is happening to him?!). He shakes his head, clears his throat. “We didn’t move in together, coach, we were _forced_ into cohabitation, against our will.”

“School policy to put you anywhere we like, Hale,” Finstock claps him on the shoulder, “And Stilinski’s been paying attention in class for the last week; I can only assume you’ve put the whole issue to bed.”

Derek swallows at the choice of words, nods shortly, “Yes.”

“Well, keep it up,” Finstock points at him and then at Stiles who has conveniently appeared now that Derek’s cheeks are flaming red.

“Sir?”

“I was just saying to Hale, here, that I’m glad you two are getting along so well, these days.”

“Oh yes,” Stiles smirks over at Derek, the hickies on his neck from the day before in full view. He even touches one before pulling his collar up, gives Finstock an innocent smile. “Much better.”

Finstock looks between them, a suspicious expression on his face before he rolls his eyes, “Dear god, _you two_. Do you need the talk?”

Stiles’ cocky look vanishes and he almost backs into Derek completely, “Uh, no sir, no, we do not.”

“Do not, do anything untoward on school property, or at all, ever, until you are no longer students at my school.” Finstock points at Derek, “I mean it.”

“I think we’ll manage,” Derek says evenly, mentally crossing his fingers behind his back. He's followed the rules all his life, but he's not willing to give up _this_ with Stiles, for any amount of detentions. 

“It seems that way so far,” Finstock says sarcastically, gestures at Stiles’ neck, “Wear a scarf like Lahey until those are gone, and I swear if I see anymore, I will separate you. I might anyway.”

“Coach! It’s fine,” Stiles pretends to shove Derek into his locker and Derek rubs at his already bruised arm grumpily. “See? Hate the guy.”

“Give me a _break_ , Stilinski,” Finstock snaps, turning to stalk down the corridor, “First you hate each other and now this!” He waves a hand over his shoulder, “Early grave from the both of you, I swear!”

They watch him go, wincing, and then Stiles turns to beam at Derek, pats his shoulder, “Sorry about that, want me to kiss it better?”

“Get a room,” Boyd huffs, opening his locker into Stiles’ face.

Derek laughs, rubs Stiles’ back consolingly and Stiles pulls away to glare at him. Derek holds up his hands, “What? I can’t find that stuff funny, anymore?”

“I’m your _man_ , you’re supposed to protect me!”

“Oh,” Derek cocks an eyebrow, “So, you’re never going to laugh at me, or pull pranks on me, ever again?”

“The power of true love,” Boyd mutters, giving them a salute and grinning at Derek over Stiles’ head. Derek tries to glower back, ends up smiling and glancing back to Stiles.

“No stupid stuff?”

“Nope,” Stiles smiles sweetly,  “I’m completely different as a boyfriend, not that I’ve ever been one before, but I reckon—”

Derek opens his locker and clouds of pink and red paper love hearts burst out in his face.

“I reckon I’ll be totally ace at it,” Stiles finishes, grinning widely at him.

“I hate you,” Derek groans, picking a heart out of his eyebrow.

“Nah,” Stiles leans in to dust some out of his hair, “You really don’t.”

“Our dads will be so pleased,” Derek says drily.

“Who cares what they think,” Stiles says dismissively, “I only give a shit what _you_ think, and, you think I’m awesome.”

“I think you’re _something_.”

“ _Awesome_ , yeah, we established that, Derek, keep up.”

Stiles grabs his hand, begins tugging him to class and when he smiles it makes Derek’s heart turn over. He shakes more paper hearts out of his shirt, rolls his eyes fondly.

He’s _so_ getting his revenge on Stiles later.

 

 


End file.
